


Almost

by spilled_notes



Series: Mad March Prompt Challenge [2]
Category: Spooks | MI-5
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-24 16:56:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6160330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spilled_notes/pseuds/spilled_notes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt 'shoulder rubs'.  Late nights on the Grid, just the two of them, alone but not.  Set after 4.01.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Almost

Harry watches from his office as, one by one, the team leaves the Grid through the pods. He glances at Danny’s empty desk and sighs heavily, rubbing his eyes. And then his gaze falls on Ruth.

Just the two of them left. It’s become an almost nightly occurrence since Danny’s death: she stays as long as she can, until the last bus, and so does he. There’s always paperwork to catch up on, he always has an excuse ready, but there’s nothing that can’t wait. No, he doesn’t stay to work, although he _does_ work. He stays simply because she stays. She was close to Danny, he knows, and watching her hurting has made him realise how deeply he cares for her.

So he sits, watching her out of the corner of his eye. Sometimes he leaves his office to ask her a question. Sometimes she brings him tea (never coffee, not this late), comes in without knocking, as is her habit. But mostly they sit at their respective desks, alone but not. He wonders how much work she actually does, if her nights are more productive than his.

She always says goodnight before she leaves. He always watches her go, watches her out of Thames House on the CCTV, before he too heads for home.

Tonight she looks especially tense. Harry wishes he could hold her, share her grief, maybe absorb some of it, offer his strength to add to her own. He walks quietly onto the Grid towards her. She doesn’t look up, doesn’t need to: there are only the two of them here, after all. He stands behind her, hesitates a moment, then lightly rests his hands on her shoulders.

She jumps, pen skipping across the page, and looks around at him, frowning. ‘Harry, what – what are you -?’

He almost removes his hands, almost withdraws to his office, but no. Instead he squeezes gently, feels the hard knots of tension in her muscles. He presses a little harder, slow symmetrical circles with his thumbs, sweeping down between her shoulder blades as far as he can reach. His hands curl around her small shoulders, fingers long enough to rest on her collarbone, touching soft, bare skin instead of the fabric of her blouse.

After the shock, Ruth begins to relax. She closes her eyes, drops her head, feels his thumbs work slowly up to the base of her skull before returning to the tightest muscles, between spine and shoulder blades. He presses deeper, seeking out the knots, and she winces, a hiss of indrawn breath, when he catches a sore spot.

‘I’m sorry,’ he murmurs, thumbs gently sweeping again.

The weight of his hands on her shoulders is an immense comfort. He’s so close; Ruth can feel his warmth, hear every breath. She longs to tip her head back to rest against his torso, to feel his solidity, to be surrounded by him.

Instead, she dares to reach up and touch his hand with her own. Her thumb slips beneath his fingers, gripping them lightly. She tilts her head so her cheek rests on her hand, on his.

Harry wants to bend, to kiss her hair, to feel it soft against his cheek and breathe in the scent of her shampoo. Doesn’t. Just stands, almost holding her, her face almost against his hand.

Almost, but not quite, as they always seem to be.


End file.
